Recalled to Life
by Kallamae
Summary: A short story of Eowyn after her injury at the Battle of Pelennor Fields. She has the chance to pass on into peace and glory, but is called back.


_I walk in shadows through a cold mist that divides the world of the sun from the barren soil. I know not how, but my armor is gone. Replaced with the simple raiment I oft wore in the Golden Hall of Meduseld. Sharp rocks bite into my bare feet. But, I do not care. The pain, like everything else, is muted, dull._

_In the gray haze that pure light never pierces, a cliff rises. Wind blows and distant birds cry out, mourning the waning day. _

_I stand upon the brink and I see into the gloom. An ever-reaching pool of darkness races across the land and sea below. Despair consumes all in its path. And Hope flees to distant shores._

_On the horizon, it rises. White halls upon white sands. I can feel the warmth even from where I stand. _

_A path appears before me, thin and smooth. A line of glass reflecting silver with the distant light. _

_I step over the ledge._

_My foot meets the solid path. I am not alone. There are other paths and men taking tentative steps toward the light._

_Before I can take another step, something whispers in the wind. I stop. It calls again. There is something familiar in the tone._

_I step back onto the cold hard cliff. It grows stronger. I know the voice as well as my own. It speaks my name. Soft tones turning insistent and desperate._

_He is behind me now. I can feel the warmth radiating from him, overpowering the promise of the distant shore. I turn and he is there. His hand reaching out, his eyes almost pleading._

_I have never seen such depth of sorrow on his face. He has always been strong and proud, but to me gentle. The best of brothers. The last of my kin._

_I take his hand._

With a sharp gasp, Éowyn awoke. Her gray eyes opened to the sight of her brother's relieved face. He still wore his armor, stained with the dirt and gore of battle. His face and hair matted with blood and sweat. At her questioning glance, tears plowed clean streaks through the dirt on his cheeks.

The visions of a strange dream were replaced with images from the day's mêlée. Orcs had nearly overrun their woefully small army. Théoden, king and uncle, had fallen. Trapped below his mount, the Witch-king of Angmar poised to strike, she had interceded. Even at the memory, she shivered.

Her shield arm was bound. The Lord of the Nazgûl had shattered both shield and arm in the fight. Her sword arm felt cold and numb from the tips of her fingers all the way to the nape of her neck. Tendrils of ice crawled over her breast and up her jaw line seeking purchase in her heart and on her lips. As she had plunged her sword into the foul wraith, its icy breath had poisoned her flesh.

"Merry?" her ragged voice asked. For she had not ridden alone, a Halfling and friend had lent his strength to her cause. "Where is Merry?"

Éomer looked to the doorway for an answer. Aragorn stood in the shadows there. He had healed the shieldmaiden to the best of his ability, but it was up to someone she truly loved to call her back from despair and death. Someone who was not him. Her infatuation with him would never be strong enough. And he could never return her regard in the way she thought she wanted. Not for the first time, that thought heavied his heart.

Aragorn stepped forward, uncomfortable under the tender gray eyes locked upon him. "He was injured, but will heal. As will you," he added.

"My uncle?" she turned her eyes back to her brother, but she already knew the answer.

Éomer's lips pulled into a grim line. "He dines in the halls of our fathers now."

Éowyn saw a fleeting image of a stone hall bathed in light on a serene white shore, but it wavered and vanished as tears welled in her eyes.

"Hush now, sister. You would not have your uncle look back upon you and see you weep at his glory." But his admonishment was gentle and he held her as she cried.

Aragorn slipped silently away from the grieving family with no more notice than a glimpse or gratitude from Éomer's eyes to acknowledge his departure. Catching the Warden of the Houses of Healing, he gently ordered, "See that the lady is well looked after for she is the Hope of Rohan whether she admits such distinction or no. And she has bought a victory this day with much pain.

"Give her a room looking out to the west where there is still blue sky to be seen," he added. "And bring the Halfling, Master Brandybuck, to see her as soon as he is well enough."

The Warden nodded. He had already heard tales from the wounded men about this shieldmaiden of Rohan. Those of the Rohirrim who saw their king fall also saw the fate of the Nazgûl. And when their eyes befell their fair Éowyn succumb to the wraith's poison, they fought each with the fury of a hundred men to avenge their sister-in-arms. There would be much rejoicing now their Lady was recalled to life.


End file.
